


Requiem

by HigherMagic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Angels Are Known, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-22
Updated: 2013-08-22
Packaged: 2017-12-24 08:29:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/937827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HigherMagic/pseuds/HigherMagic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was here, in a crowded bar some distance of miles between fifty and seventy from the nearest suburban habitat, that Dean Winchester’s life was lifted up and dropped unceremoniously, upside down, on its head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are my own. Christmas-themed porn yay!

It was here, in a crowded bar some distance of miles between fifty and seventy from the nearest suburban habitat, that Dean Winchester’s life was lifted up and dropped unceremoniously, upside down, on its head. Possibly breaking its spine – and a few other things, for that matter.

It was stupid Sam’s puppy eyes and everything that came down to it. _Come on, man_ , he’d said, _it’s Christmas Eve,_ he’d said, all lower lip jutting out and big eyes wide. Had always been the same way since Sam had settled down with the love of his life, leaving Dean flying free in bachelor Purgatory. _Who knows, you might even meet an Angel._

An Angel. Dean’s weakness, and Sam, the little shit, knew it too.

It wasn’t a _huge_ deal – certainly not one that warranted capital letters or anything. Dean just…he liked wings. He liked the power in Angels, and maybe he had a _thing_ for their entire species as a whole. Whatever. It wasn’t uncommon for humans and Angels to get it on, anyway.

And Christmas was the time of year they were out in full flux – hundreds of them, everywhere, littering cities and bars and towns and pretty much any and all holes in the walls and rest areas and just – they were everywhere, descending down upon Earth like the stories of old to mingle with humankind and remind them that, yes, God was with them. But only the mated ones stuck around for long.

So that was how Dean Winchester found himself in a crowded bar, fifty to seventy miles from the suburb where Sam had firmly planted roots, nursing a beer and keeping his mouth firmly shut as his brother pointed out each and every Angel that crossed their paths.

“Look at her – she’s cute! Her wings are a really pretty color – is red that rare?” And Dean grimaced, because it wasn’t _just_ about the wings – but he wasn’t going to wax poetic about his kinks to his little brother, thank you very much, no sir-ee. And it _certainly_ wasn’t about the, ah, parts either.

Dean wondered whether Sam was that obtuse, was ignoring it, or just didn’t even realize that Dean’s eyes were straying, hungry for something more…well, more.

And it was between one blink and the next that Dean found himself being stared at in return. There was an Angel standing close to the bar, wings the color of the night sky outside fanned out low to his sides – relaxed, but showy too. Dean swallowed, mouth dry, beer forgotten, as his eyes strayed up. The Angel’s eyes were glowing, as they always did when confronted with the garish light of human bulbs, flashing like cat’s eyes, clear and bright as a cloudless summer sky. Dean could taste the crisp air, smell the freshly mown grass.

As Dean watched, the Angel tilted his head to one side, small smile curling at his mouth as he turned, raised a bottle to his lips, swallowed one long draught of whatever-the-hell he was drinking, and Dean swallowed in mimicry, licking his lips and found himself almost confused that he couldn’t taste the drink himself.

The air felt like an electric current against his skin, his fingers tightening, nerves stretched.

“Sam,” he whispered, pushing himself to his feet and cutting off his brother’s constant commentary on the female Angels surrounding them. “Go home.” And he could _hear_ the smug little bastard’s smile when he clapped his hand down, squeezing tight, and released to follow the pull of the Angel’s eyes. He felt like a fish caught on a line, knew this was part of the Angel’s allure – their Thrall, their Grace, almost like a drug to humans – knew but didn’t care.

“You have beautiful eyes,” the Angel said by way of introduction, setting his drink down and straightening at Dean’s approach, smiling wide, toothy, like a cat post-canary.

Dean felt like his very spine had melted, heat licking up the back of his neck, curling in his toes and between his legs. The Angel’s voice was like the drag of nails down his back, the screaming demand of _more, now, give it to me._ “So do you,” he replied, voice weak, shaking.

Full lips quirked up higher, head tilting the other way, and the Angel’s wings snapped out, fanning the air. The scent of summer grass and honey was almost suffocating. “Castiel,” he said, holding out a hand.

“Dean,” came the reply, taking it.

No sooner had their fingers curled around each other’s hands, then Castiel was yanking Dean forward, wings flaring out to firmly ensconce the human in the thick warmth of his feathers, and Dean had the fleeting empathy with a fly caught in amber, before strong, demanding fingers were knotting in his hair, forcing his head down, and a mouth clashed into his, biting at his lower lip, forcing his mouth open.

If his spine had melted before, his knees had now. He knew that had he not been held so tightly within Castiel’s wings, he may have fallen.

“Come with me,” came the harsh, gasping demand, gravel-whiskey in his ear, shivering down his spine like electricity.

He knotted his fingers in thin, soft fabric – a plain t-shirt – hooked through belt loops on Castiel’s jeans. “Yes,” he hissed out, arousal blinding him, tainting the world red around the edges and burning in the middle of the same color as the Angel’s eyes.

How they traveled, Dean couldn’t say – perhaps the Angel flew them, perhaps they walked or stumbled or Dean simply fell to his knees right then and there – he would have believed anything he was told. Blood was pounding in his skull, thick behind his eyes, a gunshot’s recoil in his chest, and he pressed his mouth to the closest piece of skin he could reach, sucking, licking, biting, desperate to drink down any and all of the Angel’s essence, take it into himself. His body burned with the desire to know of Grace.

Castiel closed his eyes, breathing deep the scent of lust and light pouring out of the man – such a bright soul, greyed-out with loneliness. How he had brightened upon seeing Castiel; the love and light in this man, yes, the Angel wanted – _needed_ – to know of him. To share with him and bond and the strength of their God, to mate him and mark him as one of their own.

“On your knees,” he ground out, almost shocked at how quickly he was obeyed; the human – _Dean_ – dropped into the pose of worship with such grace and eagerness, as though he had been doing it all his life; adoration and need felt with such force as though it was piercing Castiel, tearing at his wings, forcing him down, to fall, to fight.

He laid his body over Dean’s, pushing him down onto his back, wings flared high in domination over the human soul. His Grace was glowing, burning behind his eyes, tainting the inside of his mouth when he kissed Dean, let some of his light into the human’s mouth to be sure he would be well-received, would not hurt Dean in this process.

The taste of Grace – warmth and fruit and fresh outside air – made Dean shudder, entire body surging with pleasure and need, fingers grasping greedily at Castiel’s hair, and his clothes, though he dared not touch the Angel’s wings – he had not been given permission, and would not touch such holy, beautiful things without being told he could.

“ _Cas_.” It sprang unbidden from his mouth, swallowed down by the Angel as Castiel ripped at their clothes, fell between the human’s legs that spread so easily and welcoming to him – another gesture of worship, of love, and it made Castiel smile.

“Hush, Dean,” he whispered, kissing again at the human’s open, panting mouth, freeing himself from his clothes to let Dean feel him – feel the need he conjured in the Angel, the love bestowed upon his own body in return for his askance. He pressed his mouth flush to the human’s reddened chest, curling his hands underneath Dean’s back, lining himself up.

Dean went tense. “We need -.” But his words were cut off in a sharp cry, as Castiel thrust forward, flesh spearing and spreading him wide open without hesitance or gentleness.

The Angel’s words were a benediction; an order. “You will feel no pain,” he whispered, and there was no pain, nothing but strength and awe and power in this union, and though Dean was tense, instinct telling him to expect and fear the pain, Castiel kissed at him again, mouth pressed flush to neck and chest and mouth until Dean relaxed, softened in his arms, was pliant and receptive to the Grace of God. “Dean.”

Grassy eyes, glazed and blinking open, focused on the cat-like glow of the Angel’s own, and Castiel smiled. “Receive,” he whispered, power vibrating through his voice, and he pulled out from the warm welcome of Dean’s body, thrusting back in hard enough that the human cried out again – loud, uninhibited – as Castiel bent over his body, wings drawing in, tense and trembling, and set up a rhythm that had Dean’s back scratching against the hardwood floor.

Dean’s fingers dug in hard to Castiel’s shoulders, legs coming up, bracketing him tight – caging him in, locking down, desperate, needing, and the Angel closed his eyes. Soon. Yes, soon he would be ready, could receive.

“Cas.” The name, the gasp, breathless plea, had the Angel stilling, stuttering, nails ripping into the skin of Dean’s back. “Cas, _please_.”

_Yes._

The Angel’s wings flared up high, Grace glowing in the tips of each and every feather, before he flung them down again, wrapping them tight around Dean’s body, tucking them under, and Dean yelled out as though he was being burned, and Castiel’s fingers ripped three lines on either side of Dean’s spine, opening his back.

Pain tainted the air the color of blood and the color of God’s royalty, and Castiel sealed his mouth over Dean’s, parted in a wordless cry of agony and despair like He had known, Grace flowing out of him as his body stilled and stuttered itself deep into Dean’s body, hilted tight, sharp hipbones pressed flush as he emptied himself into the human, pouring out everything that he had so that Dean could feel the love and adoration in an Angel’s being.

Dean screamed again when it was done, and when Castiel withdrew, his wings still wrapped tight around the human to shield him, warm and gentle hands stroking through sweat-slicked hair as Dean writhed and shook in his arms.

He screamed, and he kept on screaming, crying out for God and for his brother and for anyone that might listen, and the Angel closed his eyes, lips pressing tight when the name ‘Castiel’ spilled from the man’s open mouth, tasting of tears and blood from biting the inside of his mouth.

When it was finished, Castiel breathed a sigh of relief, opening eyes that glowed dimly and pulling back to look upon Dean. Dean’s eyes were closed, his breathing shallow and rapid – he had passed out from the pain, sweat slicking his hair, what remained of his clothes darkened and slick against him.

The Angel smiled, reaching out, and lightly touching the fledgling wings sprouting from Dean’s back. They had grown through the cuts Castiel had ripped, two of them the color of sunlight through autumn leaves, brown and red and gold and tainted with purple-blue on the underside. The color of the Lord, of God, and Castiel’s smile grew; Dean was truly blessed, to be marked so by God.

Eyelids fluttered, and Castiel clutched Dean close, pressing a kiss to his forehead, twin Graces, half of Castiel flowing through each of them and allowing Dean to rest, to recuperate fully before opening his eyes to the new, loving embrace of this life – a life full of siblings and a loving God and father, a life where he could be herald to both men and Angels, and Castiel could take care of him all of their lives.

“Pater,” he whispered, resting his forehead against Dean’s, combing a hand through the shaking wings of his new friend and Brother and mate, “ad angelus, requiem.” And his wings curled around them both, shielding them from sight to whoever may enter this place after them. He would wait until Dean woke up before moving them again.

He would be here, ever watchful, for the birth of the newest Angel.


End file.
